Sahar put on a pair of heavy leather gloves and grabbed two rounds for himself. They had done this dozens of times, but they had attacked the main base only once, and that had been months ago. They had found out the hard way that the Americans had very advanced, fire-finding artillery radar. One of their first missions had been to fire on the main runway as a cargo plane was coming in for a landing. They set up their mortar, got a shell, and then dropped it in the tube. With a thud and whoosh it was gone. They stood there waiting to hear the explosion. It came a few seconds later and they clapped and laughed with elation. Sahar was about to drop a second round in the tube when they heard the whistle of an inbound artillery shell. The only thing that saved them was a nearby sewage ditch that they reached as the first of six shells pounded their position. The car was completely destroyed. Sahar had lived and learned.
On this particular day Sahar and Ziba were less than enthusiastic about their job. The man from Hezbollah had told them what he expected of them, and it was too much. Six mortar rounds fired from one tube would take nearly twenty seconds. More than enough time for the Americans to fire back at them and with shells a hell of a lot bigger than the ones they were firing. They told him his plan wouldn’t work and he immediately called their devotion into question. Even their manhood. Sahar and Ziba had taken the bait and had told the man they would do it. Neither man had slept well, and in the middle of the night they agreed that four shells would be enough. They would then drive to a second position and fire two more.
Sahar returned to the mortar tube and looked at his friend who nodded that he was ready. Sahar dropped the shell in the tube and each man took a half step back. There was a loud bang and whoosh as the shell was sent skyward. Gravity would play its role within a second and pull the round back down to earth, hopefully placing it near the front gate of the base. Ziba dropped the second round in the tube and off it went. The last two shells were launched, and Sahar grabbed the hot tube with one hand and the bipod with the other. He heaved the fifty pounds of metal into the trunk and ran for the driver’s door. Just as he was sliding in behind the wheel he heard the bloodcurdling whistle of an incoming round. Sahar stepped on the gas with all his might and the small Toyota took off. A second later the first round hit causing the ground to shake for blocks in every direction. The rear window shattered from a piece of shrapnel, but the car kept moving.
Ziba was now sitting in the front seat with Sahar. The two men looked at each other and laughed nervously. At twenty-four and twenty-five, they still found humor in such things. Eight blocks later they pulled up to their second location. Again Sahar grabbed the mortar and Ziba grabbed two rounds. Sahar placed everything on the proper marks and then reached out for Ziba’s second shell. He nodded for his friend to proceed. Ziba cradled the shell with both hands and tipped it until it slid backwards down into the tube. The 60mm shell boomed out of the tube with force.
This street had dirt and sand covering most of the asphalt. The launch kicked up a cloud of dust, which caused Sahar to lose sight of the tube for a second. Once he reacquired it, he rushed to load his shell. His nerves were frayed and the dust was making things difficult. Under better conditions he probably could have loaded the round without incident, but as soon as he heard the demonic shriek of multiple inbound shells, he panicked and missed the tube entirely.
The shell hit the ground with a clank, and Sahar thought for sure that it would explode. Both men froze for a moment, looked into each other’s eyes and then without having to say a word, starting running like hell for their idling car. With every step Sahar was cursing himself for allowing the Hezbollah man to goad him into doing something so foolish. When he reached the driver’s door, the first 155mm howitzer round impacted a mere seventy feet away. Razor-sharp shrapnel flew in every direction at more than 16,000 feet per second. The concussive blast and the molten hot shrapnel tore through both men in a flash.
39
Mukhtar kept his eyes on the street and said to Rashid Dadarshi, the Quds Force commander, “Bring up the first wave.”
Mukhtar was referring to the RPG teams who were tasked with taking out the convoy’s first two vehicles. Mukhtar and Dadarshi were in complete agreement that they had assembled more than enough firepower to handle the meager five-vehicle convoy. Dadarshi, however, had stressed that they would possess that advantage for a limited time. Maybe only minutes. He availed Mukhtar of story after story where the Americans had sent reinforcements, either by ground or air, within minutes of a fight starting. Mukhtar had worked to negate the American firepower from the start. He had instructed President Amatullah to make sure the Ministry of Intelligence made it clear the meeting would be canceled if any American units were seen within two miles of its site. The Americans appeared to be honoring the security agreement that both sides had reached. Dadarshi’s scouts had reported that the city was quiet.
Mukhtar knew American military doctrine well. He had studied it for years. He knew they would have one of their quick reaction forces on standby. That was why he had deployed the mortar team. If the shells they lobbed managed to hit a few of the vehicles all the better, but Mukhtar’s real intent was to create confusion and hopefully put the base into lockdown mode. Every second could prove to be crucial and his plan would hopefully gain them whole minutes.
Mukhtar was also willing to bet there were very few people at the base who knew that Kennedy was in Mosul. Whatever it was that the Americans wanted to talk about, they were certainly taking a huge risk to do it. That was why they were holding this clandestine meeting with spies instead of diplomats. They wanted deniability. While it suited their purposes, it also happened to suit Mukhtar’s needs perfectly. The Americans could try to tell the world that it was Iranian insurgents who had destroyed Iran’s nuclear facility, but Mukhtar knew better. The Americans were behind the attack. He had no proof, but his faith told him they were guilty. He was going to show them for the liars that they were, and with Amatullah’s bold help they would begin driving them out of the region.
Mukhtar saw the police vehicles that had been blocking the street begin to move. He kept his eyes on the street corner and said, “Send them out, and move the next group up.”
The Quds commander signaled for the first four men to move. They filed out the front door of the shop and turned left. They were working in pairs. All four were dressed in plain clothes and carrying backpacks, none of them wearing masks. Mukhtar watched them hurry up the sidewalk, the second pair trailing by thirty feet. He reached down and pressed the start button on his digital watch’s stopwatch function just as the first white Toyota SUV rounded the corner.
“Easy,” Mukhtar said loud enough for the second wave to hear. “I’ll tell you when to move.”
This second group was composed of six men. Four were holding RPGs and two were carrying 7.62mm Russian-made PKM light machine guns with bipods. They were all wearing hoods.
The first Suburban entered his view and then the second one with Kennedy on board. The lead vehicle began to pick up speed as did the others. The final SUV came into view and started to turn onto their street. Mukhtar stuck his right arm out and was about to tell the men to go when the first shot was fired by one of the big guns at the other end of the street.
“Go!” Mukhtar screamed. “Go! Go!” He stepped over and began pushing the men out the door. The idiot policemen were supposed to wait. The front of the convoy was supposed to be attacked first, not the rear.